


Red Shoes & Tin Houses

by Heiots



Series: Red Shoes & Tin Houses [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Gen, Kid Clint Barton, Kid Natasha Romanov, Kid Tony Stark, Minor Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Natasha Feels, Natasha Needs a Hug, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Natasha Romanov-centric, Natasha-centric, Protective Natasha Romanov, Protective Tony Stark, Tony Feels, Tony Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark-centric, Tony-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-23 22:57:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 4,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6133033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heiots/pseuds/Heiots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mini Adventures of Orphans Tony Stark and Natasha Romanov (Ages 5-7)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A for Introduction

 

Perspiration runs in little rivulets down five-year-old Tony Stark’s back, staining his shirt a darker shade of blue. He narrows his eyes, unwilling to submit to the merciless sun beating down upon the earth, but the heat persists, and finally, he retreats under the canopy of a clump of trees. He lowers himself to the ground, settling into the cooler dirt of the shady area. Swiping at the wetness running down the side of his face, he turns his gaze back to the lone individual seated on one of the two swings on the sheltered playground.  
  
She’s small-built, like him - maybe just half an inch taller - and sports a head of red hair. He doesn’t quite remember when she made her first appearance. Two weeks ago, or maybe three. He's been in this place a lot longer than she has in what he gathers is similar to a boarding school with custom-made programs for special kids.  
  
A kind of school that he has never left to go home for vacations.

All he knows is that she’s always alone, and no one ever comes to visit _them_.  
  
He pushes himself up, brushing his hands against the backseat of his shorts in a futile effort to rid the fabric of any soil stains left there. He’d probably get into trouble later, but it isn’t a top priority, and the thought is forgotten in the next second. He strides forward and squints into the brightness, the tips of his mostly white tennis shoes meeting the edge of sunlight.  
  
She makes a forlorn figure, her hands curled into fists around the chains of the swing as she digs a foot into the sand, giving herself a half-hearted push.  
  
He chews on the inside of his bottom lip. In a surprising show of bravery, or perhaps utter stupidity, he puffs out his chest and marches over to the playground before coming to a stop at the swing set. There, his muscles twitch. The sudden courage abandons him. Losing his nerve, he makes an abrupt turn and drops onto the other swing. He clutches the slightly rusted chains and pushes off the ground, pretending not to notice the presence of another. He gains momentum, pushing back harder with his feet.  
  
The wind, warm as it may be, is a welcome sensation. He isn't progressing as fast as he'd like, however, and it isn't long until his legs are tiring.

_Why aren't there swings that go high on their own?_

He decides that when he has grown up, he would create some. Wouldn't that be a blast.  
  
“Hi.”  
  
The voice startles him, interrupting his temporary quest to get as high as possible. Had he imagined the hesitant greeting? He sinks both feet into the sand, and tilting his head, peers questioningly at her.  
  
She offers a tentative smile. “Are you here for that?”  
  
His hand follows the direction of her gaze, landing on the warm, metallic circle emitting light at the center of his chest. He gives a nod. “And you?”

The words are out before he has a chance to hold them back.

Her eyes flicker.  
  
They're the colour of emeralds. He knows because he's got a book on gemstones somewhere.  
  
"I'm Tony." He tries again, sticking out his hand. “Really Anthony Edward Stark, but you can call me Tony.”  
  
A beat passes. The corners of her lips edge up just the slightest, and she shyly clasps his hand with hers. "Natalia Alianovna Romanova," she says, voice tinged with an accent he can't place. "They call me Natasha."  
  
The bell rings. He hops off the swing, and she mimics him. For a second, they look at each other in an unspoken understanding.  
  
"Race you to the door!" He cries all of a sudden. "Last one there is a computerized clod!"  
  
He dashes off gleefully, hearing her running footsteps not far behind. The bell, signaling the end of break time, ceases, and though it threatens with the possibility of punishment for tardiness, he cannot help the grin that spreads across his face.  
  
He finally made a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony/Natasha seems to be a rare pairing in this fandom, but I've got a soft spot for these two.
> 
> Warning: This fic has no structure. There may be other Avengers guest-starring, and there may be none. It's ongoing, but I cannot guarantee where it's going.
> 
> All mistakes are mine.


	2. 2 is a Fine Number

Natasha takes ballet, martial arts, and whatnot, while Tony does what she calls computer wizardry. They see each other during mealtimes and break periods, usually meeting by the fountain with weathered marble statues of cherubs near the dormitories.

It is a huge school, he tells her. Home to him, because he knows no other. Sometimes he dreams of the booming laughter of a father and the loving kisses of a mother. He cannot tell if they are the lingering remains of a long forgotten memory or the result of a silent yearning coupled with an over-active imagination. 

There are grown-ups that drop by once in a while to interact with other children from the school. He witnesses the fond touches, the affectionate looks, and concludes that they must belong together.

He belongs to no one.

During lunch, he asks Natasha about the whole idea of parents and whether or not she wants to be adopted.

She stiffens, and her soup spoon clatters back into the bowl.

It has been one week since they’d become friends. He knows when she does not wish to answer a question.

“Switch my carrots with your cup of milk,” he offers, changing the subject.

Perturbation turns to surprise. “Can we?”

“Why not? I do that all the time,” he lies.

Doubt flits across her face. He doesn’t wait for an answer. Grabbing the school-approved cup still three-quarters filled with milk, he guzzles it down as quickly as he dares without spilling a drop on his shirt. Finished, he sets it back down on her tray with a self-satisfied sigh before letting out a soft burp of contentment.

She stares at him with a mixture of awe, horror, and what he chooses to believe is a touch of admiration.

“What?” He shrugs and nudges his tray closer to hers. “Your turn. Gotta keep your end of the deal, you know.”

“I never said yes in the first place,” she counters, arching a brow. Her eyes dart towards the front, where a teacher is customarily stationed to oversee the dining period. Seeing that attention is focused elsewhere, she picks up her fork and stabs a piece of cold carrot. “You don’t know who’s watching,” she mumbles through a mouthful of vegetables.

“If they catch you, they’ll probably just scold you or something,” he says almost derisively.

She doesn’t reply, even after they’ve carried their empty trays to the front for inspection.

“You’re little,” she tells him when they are out in the hall. “You don’t know anything.”

He straightens to his full height, indignation blooming in his chest. “I’m almost six,” he retorts. “And you’re only a few months older than me.”


	3. Red is Best of the Three

There was a season where she loved lingering by the window, watching the winds toss fallen leaves this way and that, up in the air and down, round and round. Almost like a dance.

Leaves of red, orange, and yellow fall in the autumn, but it is the red ones that are special.

In the house, with either Mussorgsky or Tchaikovsky playing in the background, she would spin, twirl, and leap, filled with an enthusiasm and an energy that could not be harnessed as she imagined herself partnered with the wind. Her father would sweep her up, good-naturedly joining her in the dance. Her mother would tell her she was her favourite of all the leaves.

“My little red autumn leaf,” she would coo, blowing raspberries on her tummy and reducing her to a bundle of giggles. “You are special, my daughter. You will be great one day.”

That was two years ago.

At night, she still hears them when she is drowsy with sleep: feet padding about outside her bedroom, her father’s low voice rumbling, and her mother’s soft chuckles.

They are not real. She is here, and they are not.

She watched her parents die, red stains in a blanket of white.

They died because she was special.

She doesn’t want to be special.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have coloured the edges with a little darkness.
> 
> C'est la vie.


	4. D is for Bravery

He is drenched to the skin, wet from the top of his head to the sneakers on his feet. When she asks him what the matter is, he mutters a phrase akin to “nothing’s wrong” and marches obstinately past her.

She's known him for five months. His left eye twitches when he lies.

“He did it again, didn’t he?”

The march slows to a crawl. He turns, wearing a wary expression. “What?”

“The guy you’re trying to avoid.” She folds her arms across her chest. “He stole your work and hosed you when you refused to give it to him.”

A myriad of emotions flitters across his face. “No,” he replies unconvincingly.

“I’m a spy, Tony. It’s what they train me for.”

He huffs in frustration and stomps up to his room, leaving her standing in the middle of the hallway.

The next time she sees him in that particular situation, it is by coincidence, her passing by the unoccupied classroom on her way to ballet. In the second that she sees his skinny frame pinned down by a much larger boy, who has his fist drawn back, she darts into the room, dropping her bag on the ground as she throws her lithe body onto the back of the older student.

She takes delight in the startled yelp that greets her as she pummels her fists into his neck. He twists wildly, trying to throw her off, but it is a difficult feat when her legs are locked around his waist. When he finally bucks her off, she tumbles across a desk and barely succeeds in landing on her feet. She crouches low on the ground, eyes blazing.

“Bloody wildcat,” he spits at her as he takes off.

 _Coward_ , she silently insults in Russian, glaring at the bully’s retreating back.

She is found out later that day and sent to her room without dinner. Tony sneaks in some time past eight with a black eye, muttering darkly about injustice and how the other guy managed to get away scot-free.

She shrugs it off, silently relieved about the lack of a harsher punishment. Missing dinner is child’s play compared to what she endured in her previous school. “You shouldn’t be here,” she starts quietly from the bed, watching him wander around her room.

Not that there is much to see. She didn’t make the transition from Russia to the States with a fortune to her name.

He hums in response, stopping in front of her dresser, and picks up a snow globe. Fiddling with the key at the bottom, he sets it back down as the high, tinkling notes of a familiar melody – _Lake in the Moonlight_ by Tchaikovsky – begin to play. The centerpiece, a ballerina dressed in red and frozen in time, turns amidst softly glowing lights and falling glitter.

Images of dancers in white with graceful arches flash through her mind. The chorus of ballerinas soars through the air as the orchestra rises in a crescendo. Her breath hitches at the beauty of synchrony. For one moment, it is as though they are suspended in time.

“You hungry?”

The question jerks her from the swelling pool of memories. The notes fade, the lights go out with one last flicker, and the dance ends, leaving only echoes of endless unison applause and shouts of “bravi” in her ears. 

The snow globe is dark once more.

He watches her carefully, concern in his eyes.

“I guess,” she manages, rubbing a newly-formed bruise as she presses the toes of her sock-clad feet into the maroon comforter.

He breaks into a smile. “Good, because I smuggled some stuff in for you.”

The illegal hoard turns out to be a slightly bruised apple, a packet of plain crackers, and a cheese sandwich.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For your listening pleasure: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WRFT_iWq5R0 (Lake in the Moonlight - Natasha's Snow Globe Melody)


	5. 5 is a Milestone

On a snowy Thursday evening, he sticks exactly six toothpicks into the blueberry muffin he’d snuck under his jacket from the breakfast spread in the cafeteria. It is a little crumbly at the sides, and there is a good-sized hole from an unfortunate accident, but he thinks she wouldn’t mind.

The companion to the birthday cake is a dark red cloth bag a little smaller than a textbook, pulled shut with drawstrings. He decides not to tell her he’d gotten the gift through what the other students call the “Black Market”.

With both items having been carefully placed on a low table, there is nothing more to do but wait.

Her accommodations are not unlike his; only he has more gadgets lying around from the projects he creates in classes. The basics, however, remain the same: a twin bed with a black-brown wooden frame, a closet, a small side table coupled with a chair, and a dresser, all sporting a similar design. Three colour options for bed sheets and comforters are offered to them.

Some kids have more. He’s heard the boastings and seen the evidence, kids pampered by parents he now knows as Sponsors. It’s a term fast travelling around the school from one child to another.

He would like one, but Natasha isn't as enthusiastic. She once told him there is beauty in simplicity, and only destruction in wanting more.

Mind wandering, he meanders to the window where snow is falling so fast it looks like a sheet of white. His breath condenses on the cold glass, and he idly writes out the formula for a mathematical problem with a finger.

Maybe she’d be up for building a snowman in the morning, he considers, distracted.

There is the click of the lock, and he spins around, the elated cries of "Happy Birthday" spilling from his lips even before catching sight of her.

She stands in the doorway, head cocked at an angle. “You remember,” she begins slowly. “The last time they caught you sneaking back to your room after curfew?”

“But it’s November 22nd!” His voice pipes up an octave in his excitement. “It’s a special occasion!”

She shuts the door and takes in the new additions to her room, a crease forming between her brows. "How did you know?"

"Sources." He grins secretively.

It takes her a minute before she lowers herself on the carpet before the little wooden table. “Are these supposed to be candles?” She asks with quiet amusement, eyeing the toothpicks impaling the muffin.

“I can light them on fire if you want me to,” he offers, eager to show off some of the skills he’s recently attained.

She rejects him, but he sees the twinkle in her eyes and hears her chuckle. Suddenly giddy, he abandons the plan to wait until after the cake. Snatching his gift from the table, he shoves it in her hands, nodding vigorously when she gives him a questioning glance.

He quivers with excitement as she carefully pulls open the top of the bag. At the sound of a sharp intake of breath, he breaks the silence. “Do you like it?” He blurts out, breathless from the anticipation.

She doesn't speak, but hugs the red ballet shoes to her chest and gives him the kind of smile that people do when they’re trying not to cry.

After they’ve both demolished the cake, when crumbs and toothpicks litter the table, when the only light is the warm, orange glow of the lamps, and the only sound is the howling wind of the winter storm, he sits with her on the ground, knees pulled up to his chest. Their backs rest against the bed frame as they face the window, witnessing Mother Nature’s fury.

“If today was your last birthday,” she begins in a voice so soft, her words are almost inaudible. “What would you do?”

He chews on his lip, mind spinning. Books and the World Wide Web may have provided him with a significant amount of knowledge about birthday traditions, but he has never celebrated his birthday with another.

Imagination would have to suffice. What _would_ he do?

After a long moment of pondering, he chooses the answer that feels most right to him.

“I would do whatever I wanted to do, with whomever I wanted to do it with.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And out of the mouths of babes come canon.


	6. Heroes of Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint Barton guest-stars.

A paper ball hits Tony Stark on the side of his face during a lecture on “Programming Methodology” the year he turns seven. He twists around in his seat, glaring balefully at the possible culprits in the back row.

One of the three attendees, feet propped up on the table, meets his annoyed gaze and has the gall to snicker at him. Swinging his feet to the ground, the boy hunches over the desk and motions for him to read the crumpled piece of paper.

He frowns, turning back to face the front, determined to ignore the spikey-haired kid with pale, piercing eyes, but two additional hits on the exact spot on his skin makes him consider reporting the new student for disruptive behaviour.

“Clinton Francis Barton,” the overhead speakers announce smoothly. “Please report to the Principal’s office. Clinton Francis Barton, please report to the Principal’s office.”

He has never put much stock in luck until now.

From the corner of his eye, he sees the infuriating boy rise and saunter out of the lecture hall. He returns his attention to the professor, expecting no further interruptions.

Temptation wins out within thirty seconds.

The first note reads: “You and Natasha Romanoff are best buddies?”  
  
The second is a variation of the first: “Are you friends with Nat Romanoff??”

The last is a gratingly childish drawing of what appears to be six stick figures battling a monster with bulging eyes, triangles for ears, and vampire fangs dripping blood.

He shakes his head and throws it all in the trash bin at the end of class.


	7. 7 Stands for Perfection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Clint Barton guest-starring.

There's something he likes about the old playground on the eastern side of campus. It's tiny compared to the newer installments of the academy, but that doesn't bother him. He doesn't tire of the sand pit, the swing set for two, the variety of slides, and he particularly enjoys the elevator contraption that allows you to ride up if you accomplish solving the random puzzles it generates.

The other reason that makes it his ultimate hang out place is seated at the top of the spiral slide, humming the melody from Ravel’s _Bolero_.

“Natasha?”

The music ceases. She looks down from her perch at his semi-constructed city of sand. “Anthony.”

“Do you know Clint Barton?”

“Yes.” She slides to the bottom, flashing him a bright smile on her way down.

“I saw him in one of my classes the other day.”

"Programming Methodology?”

He pauses mid-motion, wrinkling his brow. “You know?”

“He's here on an exchange program." She executes an impromptu pirouette before dancing towards the rope structure at the other end of the playground, disappearing out of sight. 

“And?” He calls out, impatient.

“He went to the wrong classroom the first day he was here,” she continues, voice muffled. “That’s why they called him out. We've—”

The words come to an abrupt end. He waits, poking his index finger petulantly at one of the two towers.

“We've got two classes together,” she finishes as she emerges back at the top, face flushed. “That’s how I got to know about it.”

There is a feeling of discomfort in his belly, the kind he gets when he’s eaten something bad. “You talked to him?” he asks, assuming an air of nonchalance to cover his unease.

She makes a sound at the back of her throat as she bends at the waist, stretching. “He draws weird pictures and sings strange rock songs from the eighties.” She pauses. “Beat me at track yesterday too.”

“Oh,” he says in a flat tone.

In the year and a half of knowing Natasha, he’s never seen her respond to those who dare try to make her acquaintance except for him, much less hold a conversation with them. They sit together during mealtimes, finding solace in each other, two outcasts in a sea of students believing no one needs them and they need no one else.

The kids say she’s haughty, and the teachers think her shy.

He knows better; she’s scared.

Now there's a new kid in town, and as he looks up at her thoughtful expression, his heart sinks.

She likes Barton.

He grimly resumes building, lost in his brooding thoughts. When someone hunkers down beside him in the sand pit, assisting him with the formation of his utopia castle, he blinks in surprise. Green eyes meet his brown ones.

“I like Clint just fine,” she says bluntly. “But I like _you_ best.”


	8. H is for Companion

The entire structure sways precariously, shudders, and comes crashing down for the third time. She brushes her bangs back in vexation and mutters a swear word under her breath.

“I heard that,” comes a painfully raspy voice from the bed.

“You've heard worse,” she replies in annoyance. “You’ve _said_ worse.”

Large brown eyes appear above the blanket. “But I’ve never heard that one before.”

“Picked it up from Jackson Grey when I struck him during Eskrima today," she says, digging out the plastic foundation from under the pile of electric blue blocks. “By accident, of course. He screamed it so loud the beginner’s defense class next door heard it."

He sits up, throwing off both the blanket and the comforter. “You’re lying.”

“I wish. He’s probably got it in for me now,” she grimaces. “And _you_ ,” she narrows her eyes, pointing a finger at him. “Lie back down.”

He scowls and flops back down on the bed. “I’m hot,” he complains.

“You said you were cold.”

“I _was_ ,” he mutters with an edge to his hoarse voice. “Now I’m hot.”

She walks over to the foot of his bed, frowning as she studies his complexion. “You need the doctor?"

“No,” he answers shortly.

She purses her lips, unconvinced.

He blinks, the sullen expression melting away, leaving weariness on his features. “No,” He repeats, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “I just need some sleep. I'll be better in the morning."

The crease between her brows dissipate. She nudges him gently with an arm. He groans in reluctance. She pokes him harder, and he wriggles to the right, making space for her to lie beside him.

“Nat?”

“Hm."

“You should go.”

The worried tone snags her attention. She presses her lips together.

“You'll miss dinner,” he persists.

“I’ve got a stash.”

The bed shifts. She notices him staring in her peripheral vision and turns her head. "What?"

“They get upset when you don't show up.”

“I get upset when you nag."

“I'm serious."

She knows he is. She fixes her gaze on the ceiling. "I’ll tell them I was too sick for dinner.”

“You never get sick.”

“Well,” she muses aloud. “There’s always a first time for everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) If you haven't already noticed, there's a cute Kid!Tony/Kid!Natasha photo updated in Chapter 1.
> 
> 2) Red Shoes & Tin Houses II is up and running. It begins with Kid!Tony at eight years old.


	9. I stands for We

Tony Stark would usually list optimism as one of his strengths, but on this humid summer day, he has to admit that the odds of them getting out of the situation isn’t in their favour – not with three glowering figures, clenched fists, and mean stares. Every one of those guys have, on separate occasions, either trapped him in lockers, tripped him during class, or shoved his head down the toilet.

They call it harmless pranks; he calls it oppression of the weak. Bullying, in short. 

Jackson Grey leads the group with a sardonic glint in steely eyes. “Don’t say we didn’t warn you, runt. You’ll run as fast as your little legs can carry you if you value your life.”

It isn’t him they’re after today.

Natasha stiffens beside him; she knows it too.

“You’re lucky you’re getting off easy.” Conrad Gallagher, a dark-haired hulk of a boy, folds arms across his broad thirteen-year-old chest. “Too bad we can’t say the same for little Russian redhead here. She showed Jackson up in front of the whole class. You know what that means, don’t you?”

“They’ve got cameras,” Tony replies with as much confidence as he can muster.

“There aren’t any here, runt.”

His heart sinks, their best hope of wrangling an escape dissipating into thin air. He shoots furtive glances towards the nearest east building of the academy. Running isn’t an option; they’d be overpowered even before covering half the distance to the door.

Where is an authority figure when you need one?

“That’s right. Can’t figure your way out of this one, can you?” Grey smirks and tosses his shaggy hair back. “Everyone knows this is your little hangout with the mute here. It’s one of the places they’ve got no eyes on.”

“The mute and the metal,” Zack Monroe taunts, lips twisted in a mocking smile.

Gallagher fixes him with a steely gaze. “You gonna scoot or get your ass kicked?”

Tony launches himself on the first guy who comes for her. When he gets flung off almost instantly, he scrambles up and latches onto the back of another - Monroe, judging from the furious yell and the handful of blond hair in his grasp. The next time he gets thrown to the ground, a sneering face fills his vision, and a fast fist from the left follows. The last thing he sees before blacking out is Natasha going down fighting.

Twilight casts shadows on the playground when he regains consciousness. He lifts his head, wincing at the soreness of his jaw, and nearly chokes on metallic spit when he spots another crumpled figure by the swing set. His stomach lurching, he scrabbles over, ignoring his body’s protests of pain.  

“Nat?” He begins anxiously, heart pounding in his chest.

She’s awake, he sees with relief, taking in sparse, shallow breaths as she lies in a fetal position. Her arms are crossed over her waist. Blood stains her knuckles and mars the side of her face. 

"Can you stand?" He asks in worry. 

Her eyes meet his, devoid of expression. She doesn't answer.

The sun sinks beneath the horizon. He carries her on his back.

“I’m as tall as you now, you know,” he says breathlessly as he struggles towards the building where the sick bay is. “And probably gonna be taller than you in a year. You won’t be able to catch up. And guess what, Nat? They’ve got me registering for my first defense class next year. I’m gonna learn to fight like you. Those guys won’t stand a chance against us. I’ll tutor you in programming, and you’ll train me, deal?”


	10. 9 Plus One

  **Tony’s Top Ten**

 

1)     Get a masters’ degree in electrical engineering and physics before twenty.

2)     Found the world’s top technology company.

3)     Invent an artificial intelligence system.

4)     Build swings to omit manual effort.

5)     Find a family.

6)     Visit a shawarma shack. 

7)     Get on Forbes’ _Richest in Tech_ list.

8)     Master fluency of multiple languages.

9)     Construct an impenetrable suit of armour.

 

_+1 Build a ballet studio._

**Author's Note:**

> Tony/Natasha seems to be a rare pairing in this fandom, but I've got a soft spot for these two.
> 
> Warning: This fic has no structure. There may be other Avengers guest-starring, and there may be none. It's ongoing, but I cannot guarantee where it's going. 
> 
> All mistakes are mine.


End file.
